Sherlock BBC Oneshots
by unicornpoe
Summary: Just a collection of oneshots and drabbles related to the BBC TV show Sherlock. Mostly Johnlock, but some other ships possibly included. Will take requests! Rated T for possible future content.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So this is exactly what it sounds like: a series of oneshots and drabbles all related to Sherlock BBC. Please review and let me know what you all lovelies would like me to write about! I'm more than happy to take recommendations! Thanks so much for reading, and for any and all of you that came over here after 'Stay', thanks for sticking around ;)**

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"I'm going to send Mycroft a glitter bomb."

I'm not sure, at first, if this is a sentence the deigns a response. There are a total of four obvious things that I can infer from it immediately that give me conflicting thoughts:

1\. John said this firmly enough that I see no point in arguing.

2\. The words 'Mycroft' and 'bomb' in the same sentence give me unpleasant feelings against my will, almost like I care what happens to my brother which I _don't._

3\. John would never blow somebody up (certainly not if that somebody was a somebody that I didn't loathe) and so the bomb ostensibly isn't one of the detonating kind.

4\. The words 'Mycroft' and 'glitter' in the same sentence fill me with a child-like glee that I haven't felt since last week when John let me catch a bee in his coffee cup and bring it to my room for science. (It wasn't for science. It was because I love bees. I'm ninety-three percent sure that John knows this.)

John sits down in his chair. Laptop: opened, seemingly to a page related to said glitter bombs, but I'd have to look to be sure. He's doing that thing with his face where he isn't quite smiling and his lips are pursed, and in a split second I decide that I'm interested in this conversation.

"Are you suggesting the explosion of my brother?" I ask. I raise one of my eyebrows, confident that John will not see through the falsity of this question. Of course he isn't considering that (as evidenced by option number three) but I find it sinfully fun to bait him.

"It's glitter, not black powder, and trying to blow Mycroft up would be even more stupid than whatever that thing you did with the octopus and the mustard last week was."

"I was trying to─"

"Yes, I know, the point _is─"_ and here he looks at my from under his light eyelashes without moving his head, which for some reason I find unspeakably attractive─ "I'm not going to explode him, I'll just send him this glitter bomb─comes in a harmless looking package, he'll never know─and then he'll open it and it'll shower sparkles down all over his stately ass."

I wait a moment before answering because it seems like the appropriate thing to do, and I don't want to appear _too_ enthusiastic lest John become suspicious. Finally I say, "What color?"

John smirks and says with declarative joy, "Fuchsia."


	2. Doing Fine

**A/N: This chapter was inspired by a lovely piece of fan art that I saw once, shed tears over, and then promptly forgot both title and artist of. So, whoever out there created that piece with Rosie coming down the stairs and Sherlock being a worried dear, then this one's for you. Please comment with requests for upcoming chapters! It means the world to me when you do.**

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Sherlock stood at the bottom of the flight of steps leading from 221A to 221B with his heart in his throat.

Terror wasn't a new feeling for Sherlock Holmes. He'd been shot at. He'd been _shot._ He'd seen his best friend with bombs strapped to his chest. He'd been dangled by his ankles over the Thames by a heroin dealer who was high as a kite, locked in a tiny meat freezer for six hours and pushed down a hill while the key was flushed down someone's loo, thrown himself off of a building, been tortured by countless nameless lackeys of the most evil man he knew, and watched while his brother and the love of his life were threatened by his psychopathic sister, and yet all of that paled in comparison to the sheer terror that he was feeling now.

Rosie Watson was walking down the stairs.

This wouldn't have been so bad if the little girl's father were here to help with her descent. (Or, more accurately, to enforce the help of her descent, as every time Sherlock stepped closer than three feet to Rosie she began to shriek that she was "A big girl!" and kick her stubby legs wildly at him.) But John was not here, John was at Molly's birthday party where Sherlock and Rosie needed to be, and had no idea of the form of hell his best friend was currently going through.

"Carefully now, love," Sherlock murmured. He was standing stock-still at the base of the steps. Hands: clasped shakily together behind back, head: tilted up a little as he watched young Watson, feet: planted firmly, but not so firmly that he couldn't dart forward and perform a daring rescue if need be. "Take your time."

Rosie turned those big blue eyes upon him─so like her father's were those eyes, expressive and clear and beautiful─and gave him a grin. And even though his heart was doing a fair job of beating its way out of his chest, he found himself grinning lightly back. It seemed that every Watson he would ever know somehow possessed the ability to work this strange magic over him. This magic that kept him pulled inexorably toward them and filled him with a warm, happy glow. "Papa," said Rosie, and she reached one chubby hand out toward him, opening and closing her fingers in a grabby motion.

"Would you like help?" Sherlock asked, preparing himself to take the child's hand, but just then Rosie extended a stocky leg forward and the rest of her tiny (precious) body went with it and Sherlock was running, faster than he had ever run before, nothing in his crowded mind but to protect his Rosie (his tiny, perfect, completely lovable Watson, his miniature John and Mary) to save her, to keep her safe, to snatch her out of thin air before she tumbled all the way down─

And then that minuscule, red-booted foot was planted firmly on the next step, both tiny hands were gripping the wooden railing, and she was looking out at him from under raised eyebrows (must have learned that particular expression from her Daddy) as he face-planted the wall, one arm thrown up over his head, and breathed deeply.

He closed his eyes for 0.7 seconds and bit his lips tightly. Then he was standing straight as an arrow once more at the first sound of Rosie's tentative "Papa?"

"Here. Yes. Good job, my love. Wonderful... wonderful walking. Exemplary," he babbled as his eyes roved over every last inch of her, checking to be sure, to be _very sure_ , that not a piece of her had been harmed during the almost-fall. If she had been hurt─if she was _ever_ hurt─in the presence of Sherlock, then he would never forgive himself. He had already broken his vow to the Watsons once when Mary took that bullet for him, and almost done many times since then when he and John were on a particularly dangerous case. However he was _never_ going break it where Rosie was concerned. He would walk through hell or high water for her _and_ her father rather than see either of them harmed physically, mentally, emotionally or even metaphorically.

"She's fine, Sherlock. You're both doing fine."

A warm voice. Gentle. Caressing Sherlock's back and slinking through to his core which it filled with something warm and golden. John. Instead of turning around (like he wanted to) Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on Rosie as she descended the rest of the wooden steps with toddling grace, small pink tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth. When she reached the bottom, she smiled so widely that Sherlock was sure her face would split in two and put her hands firmly on her hips in an authoritarian stance. She knew who was the boss in this family.

Sherlock, smiling warmly in answer, scooped her up easily. "Lovely job, Rosie," he murmured into the top of her soft, golden, vanilla-scented head. She wriggled against his chest and yelled, "Daddy!" over his shoulder.

He finally turned, and looked steadily at John.

Doctor Watson was leaning in the doorway, one shoulder rutted up against the wooden frame, arms crossed against his jumper-clad chest, and smiling. Not a huge, oh-my-god-I'm-so-fucking-ecstatic smile, but something smaller, quieter, more about the eyes, and infinitely more valued by Sherlock than any other expression John could wear. Sherlock was never sure if he wanted to laugh or cry when John looked at him like that. So he just stood, and stared, and squeezed Rosie when she shifted about in his arms so that she could see her daddy as well.

"You're both doing fine," John repeated again. "I..." he trailed off, and seemed to get slightly quizzical. His brow furrowed a tiny bit (but his smile didn't dim) and he crossed the small space to where Sherlock and his daughter stood, laying one hand on Rosie's soft tummy and one (intrinsically) on Sherlock's (left) shoulder. Then he bent close and kissed Rosie softly on the cheek, eliciting a soft giggle (and he was so close that Sherlock felt the top of his ashy head brush Sherlock's chin lightly, making him shudder almost as much as the hand on his shoulder).

"Why aren't you at Molly's?" It was a random, unimportant, dreadfully _dull_ thing to say, but those three things seemed to be the main adjectives describing anything Sherlock said after John had done something to make him feel... _like this._ Which was the vast majority of time.

"Wanted to be here," said John, still with that same soft smile. And then Sherlock's heart began racing again for the second time in about as many minutes because John was leaning toward _him_ , now, and then his lips were ghosting lightly, gently, warmly across Sherlock's cheek─

And then he was gone, out the door, and calling back over his shoulder to hurry up or they'd be late, and did Sherlock remember Molly's gift (yes) and if Rosie had a change of clothing in the bag (yes).

And Sherlock? Well. Sherlock smiled. Yes. They were _all_ doing just fine.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: A bit of a late Christmas gift for you all! I just whipped this up in an hour, so please excuse any errors. As usual, constructive criticism is always welcome, as are prompts for future oneshots. Happy Holidays!**

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So Christmas was something that Sherlock hadn't previously considered. Considering that tomorrow was the fateful day, this was a problem.

There had been Christmases before (of course) and they'd been full of all the proper Christmas-ey things (Sherlock supposed) but this one was different now (wasn't it?) because he had John (didn't he?). John, John Watson, Dr. John Hamish Watson, Lord of Flashy Red and Green Jumpers and Those Little Stupid Antler Head-thingys That Jingle All the Bloody Time. And John... he'd _notice_ if something was wrong and, worse than that, he'd _care._

Sherlock was swiftly going back to his old way of thinking (his pre-John way of thinking) in light of this recent holiday: caring was _not_ an advantage.

There had even been Christmases with John _in them_ , before. But Sherlock and John hadn't been lovers then (had they?) and they were now (weren't they?) and everything, Sherlock was discovering, was going straight to shite.

Sherlock─who was currently wearing a hole in the floor with his circuitous pacing of the living room floor─stopped abruptly and turned sharply on his heel. He crossed to the mantle where his skull sat (a silent witness) and picked it up in one thin hand. Brought it up to eye level and considered it dolefully, head cocked to the left. The skull stared indifferently back out of empty eye sockets and was not helpful, so Sherlock (who was not exactly in charge of his physical reactions to emotional issues when not under considerable duress) decided that now would be a good time to begin screaming.

And so he did.

Not anything intelligible, no, never that. Just a steady stream of noise that was wordless but nevertheless clear. After about five seconds he (much to the appreciation of all of Baker Street) shut the hell up because his throat was beginning to ache, and also because Mrs. Hudson was pounding on the floor with her broom and yelling at him to be quite, and John was coming at him quite quickly from the bedroom with a face that was turning an alarming shade of puce.

"Christ─dammittohell─ _Sherlock─_ what─" John stopped, completely at a loss, in the middle of their floor and stared at Sherlock in a way that might have been arousing if it weren't for the murderous glint in his eye. (Oh, who was Sherlock fooling. John was arousing all the time, murderous glint or not.) (In fact, that murderous glint might have actually been _helping_ , which was probably indicative of some strange kink that they should explore...)

"Please use your words efficiently, John, or not at all," said Sherlock, a hair more snappily than he had intended. It was just that it was _Christmas Eve,_ and it was _John,_ and he loved him _so much─_

John at last gained control of his faculties and raised his eyebrows stratospherically, along with a finger that he began waggling aggressively in his lover's face. "Don't you tell me to use my words, Mr. Let-me-just-stand-here-and-scream-the-bloody-ears-off-of-everyone-because-somehow-that's-ok-now. Apologize to Mrs. Hudson," he said sternly, transferring the focus of that finger from Sherlock's forehead to the floor.

"John─"

" _Apologize."_

Sherlock sighed. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," he yelled at a lower decibel.

"Yes, dear," came her slightly muffled reply.

"Put down the skull," John said.

Sherlock put down the skull.

John seemed to find this satisfactory, because he nodded his head sharply. Crossed his arms in front on his chest. (Wearing one of those horrendous jumpers, Sherlock saw. He regarded him with a strange mixture of fondness and disgust.)

"Now," John said, and he seemed softer about the mouth now that the possibility of death by landlady had been out ruled. "What's got you in a strop?"

Sherlock considered saying many things, among which were that he wasn't in a strop, that he was in a strop because of a case-related something or other, or that he was hopelessly unsure about everything pertaining to how certain Consulting Detectives should treat certain Doctors who they happen to be shagging and snogging and everything in between on a regular basis on Christmas. He quickly settled for the third because the first two were lies, and John hated lies.

"I," he began, breathing in deeply through his nose, "love you very much."

Well. Well, _that_ hadn't been what he'd meant to say, it hadn't been what he'd meant to say _at all_ , but John was smiling _that smile_ now _,_ and uncrossing his arms, and closing the short distance between them, so he couldn't complain.

"I love you very much as well," John said evenly. He let one of his hands drift up, almost unconsciously, and it came to rest on Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock leaned into it slightly: nuzzled until the edge of his nose was bumping the base of John's thumb, then took that hand off of his face and clasped it to his heart. John's eyes lowered briefly, took in his palm splayed flat against Sherlock's heart, both of Sherlock's hands pressed down on top of John's, and the smile grew.

"Thank you," Sherlock said. He cleared his throat. Somehow, after almost a whole year, he still couldn't hear those words without going a bit misty.

"This is also our first Christmas as partners─well, not professional partners, but romantic partners─"

"I understand, love."

"And as such," Sherlock continued, "I find myself wishing to give you the absolute complete very best of Christmases that this world has ever seen ever. However..." and here he took another deep breath, and skipped his gaze away from John, across the living room, into the kitchen to rest on a microscope. He lowered his voice further. "However I have no sodding idea how on earth to go about doing that. So I find my stress levels are currently at an all time high. Hence the bellowing."

John was quiet for an inordinate amount of time, and Sherlock found himself terrified. He shouldn't have confessed. Confessing a weakness such as that could be construed as a sign of apathy, of laziness, of a lack of devotion or love. If John thought that every single aspect of Sherlock wasn't completely in love with and devoted to him, then─

John made a soft noise (surprise, discovery, tenderness) and Sherlock snapped his eyes back to the smaller man as he whispered in a tone just this side of reverent, "Sherlock your heart's beating so fast."

"Well..." Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Well, John. I'm with you."

John's eyes were the ones filling with moisture now; irrational fear once more took hold of Sherlock. "John?" He asked in a panic.

"You lovely, beautiful idiot," John breathed, and then he slid his free hand up Sherlock's arm, up, up, across shivering shoulder and an expanse of chilly, milky neck, getting caught in dark chocolate curls, tangled from hours of fingers being run through them, or hats mashing them down. Sherlock shivered, and instinctively took his John up in long, willing arms, pressing him close as the smaller man leaned up and pressed those warm lips against Sherlock's cool ones. Sherlock parted his lips after a moment; shivered again when John's skilled tongue tangled with his own; lost all sense of time as it went on, moments of close, streaked heat, a spattering of stars leaving trails upon treasured skin.

John pulled away very slowly, but only their mouths ceased to touch: heaving chests were still as close as ever, arms wrapped tightly enough to be indistinguishable as to which limb belonged to which man. "Did that put a stop to any doubts you had?"

"I─I─" Sherlock stumbled over his words (tongue still in kissing mode, not talking mode) as he searched for the right thing to say.

Luckily John (lovely, perfect, _his_ ) spared him. " _You_ , Sherlock. You're all I need for this to be the best Christmas in all of fucking time and space. Last year was... was terrible─"

Sherlock swallowed, remembering his own Christmas last year. Playing dead in a cold, barren cell a million miles away. John, here, equally alone. Equally dead.

"─but I have you now, we have _each other_ now, and that is _all I need._ Yeah?" He raised himself up on tip-toe and rubbed Sherlock's nose with his own.

"Yeah," Sherlock whispered. "You're all I need too, John. You are─you are─you're─"

But John silenced him with another kiss.

Happy Christmas, indeed.


End file.
